The ground shook beneath your feet like something ancient and furious had risen from the depths of the earth.

Because it had.

The Indominus roared — a raw, guttural sound that made your ribs ache — and the T. rex answered back with a bellow that cracked the air like thunder. The two beasts collided just meters from you, claws and teeth and rage, destroying everything in their path.

Zach didn’t let go of your hand. Not once.

“Run!” he shouted over the chaos, already pulling you. “Go, go, go!”

You stumbled over concrete rubble, slipped on broken glass, ducked when the Indominus slammed the T. rex into a support pillar, shattering it like toothpicks. Screams echoed around you — human, animal, mechanical — but all you could hear was the pounding of your heart and Zach’s breath beside you.

You turned a corner just in time to see the raptors return — Blue leaping onto the Indominus’s back, buying the T. rex a second wind. You didn’t stop running. Not until you reached the lagoon.

And then it happened.

The Mosasaurus surged from the water in a blur of prehistoric muscle and snapping jaws, dragged the Indominus down in a fury of teeth and churning water.

Silence fell, thick and unnatural.

The T. rex stood there for a beat — chest heaving, bloodied and battle-worn — before it turned and disappeared into the jungle like a ghost.

Only then did Zach stop.

Only then did he drop to his knees beside you, his chest heaving, hands shaking as he cupped the back of your head and pressed a kiss to your hair. Just once. Just enough to make you believe you were real — and alive.

“I thought you were gonna die,” he whispered. “I thought we both were.”

⸻

Later, in the hangar, the world feels quieter, but heavier. Survivors huddle under buzzing lights. You’re wrapped in a foil blanket, knees drawn to your chest, Zach sitting close, your shoulders pressed together.

Your body’s still vibrating with leftover adrenaline. There’s dried blood on your face and dirt under your nails.

Zach doesn’t speak.

He just takes your hand under the blanket and holds it with both of his — like he’s anchoring himself. Like he’s scared he’ll forget how to breathe if you let go.

You don’t say anything either.

But your head finds his shoulder.

And for now, that’s enough.